Melting Fire
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Yao is reassured, again and again, of his men's ability to split the sky with a single hand. In a time that certainly did not occur, he watches the god of an aging general prove this to him. Hope, it seems, is more than stubborn. Historical fiction.


_**PT: All dialogue will lack the quotation marks. Why? ...It's a test of sorts; dialogue is tampered with the same way in the book A Handmaid's Tale. I'm not going to question your intelligence here.**_

_Disclaimer: Never._

"我一掌劈开天，  
跟着我去冒险，  
我们的对手到底会是谁？"  
- 对手

...

The general, Yao observes, deserves more titles, marquis or general, than most. He deserves to be deified.

Moments before the man was upon Fancheng, demanding surrender. Fighting. He gnashes his teeth; times are hard. That is obvious. He only noticed at the battle—for the first time—that the great general's beard has acquired silver and gray; he is, he realized, old. Aging. Great a man as he was and is, he is now old. Someday he shall be ash, like all others gone for this timeless war and before. The thought can strike Yao, who has seen too many people die, especially now. It strikes him like the arrow through the general's arm.

He can die today.

He is no longer young.

That arrow was protruding from his arm for too long.

If the poison doesn't kill him, he will lose a limb.

That thunderous, mighty limb that has wielded the dragon-turned-blade for many a day.

Yao swallows; he can feel sad, he can feel the sorrow. For a moment he does not believe it. Many have died. This general will not be the last. Great men have died. He can list them if he wants to; but why waste his breath and tire himself out? And why neglect the countless peasants and soldiers that have died because of constant greed and mislead nobility? He thought he could restore the Han as well, or at least bring the land to greatness once more. It still is an endless sea to swim through, looking for one pearl in the vastness. Always was, he realizes.

The present, however, matters. What matters the most now is the mountain, to see what is here and what is ahead. He has already accepted that there is no end to this.

We should get you to a doctor, he tells the general, also a marquis, who laughs.

I am not leaving the camp, the general says to him. I will not retreat.

You might lose your arm, Yao replies. A moment later he realizes that he is fretting. He cannot stop looking at the dreadful swelling color on the red arm, the ashen beard that is still so magnificent.

Then get me a doctor; I will not leave because of a mere wound.

It is not "mere," Yao argues. But the general's mind is set; he is stubborn, always has been. Yao sighs and calls for a physician.

Soon a doctor is there; the famous Hua Tuo. Only the best for such a wound on such a general, Yao thinks. He notices the incredibly iced posture he is holding, his hands at his side as he watches Hua Tuo come in with the general's son. The years have beaten this into him; he wonders if he looks anxious and almost panicked as he was not so long ago. He watches the marquis greet him cordially, draped in splendid but plain robe. He finds himself staring at the right sleeve, which conceals the viper's bite. The shudder does not come.

The general is glad, so jovial and pleasant; it does make Yao wonder. He is so much like a demigod. Probably the poison is fire.

He watches them speak.

He watches the general's son strip the robe off to reveal the swollen bite.

The doctor stares in unease; Yao watches with a pang. It is bad, if Hua Tuo himself is unnerved. Horribly _bad._ They speak, and he listens. It is bad. If left any longer, the affected arm will be rendered useless; it will hang there like a strung-up dead man. It will be a burden. Yao wonders, already terribly saddened in some recess of his heart, how it can be prevented. He does not want a crippled god—he wants the god to stay a god, a deity that is whole and still powerful. He wants to doubt that the general can still go on without an arm; after all, if one other man can lose his eye and still be a beast, then perhaps a man with one arm can still be a god; he does not want his guard to be down. He wants to believe this hopeless. He does not wish to be disappointed again; this is war, after all, and this is his kingdom. Kingdoms, he corrects himself, and decides to keep his attention to the general; though his sick fascination is great, he would not like to see an actual living hero finally meet his doom.

I will use a blade to cut through the flesh, says Hua Tuo, and scrape the poison off the bone. He gazes at the unflinching general with the bared biceps; the wound contrasting as some horrible tumor. Yao wants it off. Terrified as he as, he still wants it off.

He winces openly at the prospect of such excruciating pain—being thrown in fire and ice appeals to him more at the moment; thinking of heads rolling upon the dusty ground, he says, Is there no other way?

The doctor turns his gaze to the nation, who is still garbed in armor; Yao does not deem it safe to let it slip from his body, always ready for an attack; he is reassured by its jangling weight. He repeats, Is there no other way?

That, says the doctor, is the only way to save the arm.

Yao gazes at him, eyes solemn. No other way?—he does not say it; he wants another way. To save the arm, to save the pain.

But before he can say it, the general laughs again. It's all right, Wang Yao. It's no problem.

Yao stares at him, the old general whose strength is beginning to jerk. He sees the ash-gray hair and the silver of it, the exposed arm still so healthy-looking but for the protruding flesh, glutted on poison. All right, he says. He is almost flattered that the general would give him this attention; he can feel like a nation again. He has been almost dormant but for the few flailing attempts before the rise of the three kingdoms, when the world slipped from his fingers. Worried as he is, he nods; the general smiles at him.

Yao's world seems to tip in one way—back or forth.

We will need a cloth, the doctor continues, to put over your head, and a metal ring to put your arm through.

Why cover the head and face? Yao asks before the general.

The pain will be excruciating, the doctor observes. So the pain will lessen; and the sight of the blood and sliced flesh will terrify anyone who sees it into a faint.

The general laughs again; Yao wonders how he can still be laughing after so many years. Always capable of laughing—that loud, buoyant laugh that should be the moon or the sun's. It's always the same, it always comes. Yao finds it something oddly comforting; he wants to laugh when he does. And then the marquis says, still laughing—when Hua Tuo raises an eyebrow—Hua Tuo xian sheng, a little pain is nothing to someone such as I; as long as my arm is healed, you may dare to move! Though he is jovial, Yao catches the spark, like smudged ink or pastel, in his phoenix eyes; ferocious as the tiger he is supposed to be. Yao understands. If he were the type, he would nod in approval. He doesn't.

Hua Tuo stares, in indecision. Yao pities him, for he feels the same. And yet he is fascinated, for a reason warped and shapeless—curious how the general is wounded less than the average man; though he has many scars Yao hardly sees him injured, the marquis always cutting down those who wish to do so to him. His strength is that of a dragon, of that Yao has no doubt. To the nation, it is remarkable that he is willing to let someone slice his flesh down to the bone, even having to convince him. Truly warped.

The general stares back, and Yao knows already, that the decision has already been made; he tries to beckon at the doctor, who is still hesitating.

Then the general smiles, and stands. Ping'er, he calls to his son, who responds. Bring wine. Zhou Cang, he calls.

Here, Zhou Cang replies.

Set the qi.

Yao lets an eyebrow quirk. One smooth, finely-painted eyebrow.

Soon the weiqi board is upon the small table, there is a cup beside it; the marquis is seated on it across from Ma Liang. He plays with skill, and with enjoyment. Yao wants to smile; the hammer is knocking against his hardened heart. The marquis always manages to sway the emotion from its prison.

They are playing.

Zhou Cang and the general's son Ping are both staring, always the ones who are there to set the marquis's scene.

Yao stares again at the long beard, now thin and gray. He is an old man reminiscing as he fights the weiqi battle, plays the black-and-white game.

Hua Tuo does not move; Yao is impatient, always impatient, and wants him to realize that he is to work now. The general's arm is bared and propped by the palm, the fingers, against his leg.

Hua Tuo xian sheng, the nation says, keeping his voice secure, why are you not moving?

The doctor turns to look at him, puzzled. I am waiting for the anesthetics.

No need.

Someday Yao will forget—he will forget who exactly said that, the marquis or himself.

He will remember that the doctor's blades are being boiled, wrapped in cloth, to sterilize them; Yao hands him the chopsticks, and Hua Tuo pulls them from the water; unwraps them and takes a knife. Then the cord is wrapped below the patient's shoulder.

Yao will remember; how Hua Tuo nears, how Yao himself brings him a basin of water to the general's right foot; the young general Ping and Zhou Cang both staring with their breath bated, cold and quick. No one speaks. There is nothing, but the shallow breaths of all who look, all in the tent. And the general is the only one who smiles.

The knife nears; it touches the swollen flesh that is fat with human venom. Yao grits his teeth behind his lips, and he does not know if anyone else is. Only the marquis, with his lips parted in thought, as he lays stone after stone, is the one who is surely not anxious. He seems carefree, happy. Yao watches the blade sink, sink into the purple meat; and then...then there is—

The first spill falls, simply falls, into the basin, melts into the water; all of it plummets straight into the bowl.

Yao is breathing now, still breathing, with his teeth around his bottom lip. The first cut has been made, and is still not finished. He no longer observes Zhou Cang, Guan Ping, Ma Liang, or even Hua Tuo; his gaze is fixed upon his beloved god of a general, whose arm now holds a protruding handle of a scalpel, and it still moves about his purple wound. Yao wants to scream—to scream for him, the marquis who is smiling, and laughs that moon laugh, and still plays with such ease. Yao, on the spur of the moment, lets his focus go to the game, teeth still clenched over metal; the general is winning. The strategy he sees is subtle but brilliant. He catches the tiny details, flecks on a metal sword, in undulating thought and emotion.

More blood—tattered flesh. Yao smells it in the air. He does not retch; he lets his heart ice over, but it becomes only half a glacier. The other half hurts for the marquis, who plays on. He thinks he hears himself hiss, as the blade finally cuts through the thick flesh and hits the bone. Yao thinks he sees the general's hand freeze and twitch, only for half a second, before setting the next stone; he does not know for sure; and he watches the general, can see every pore on his stiff and sweating face. Again and again the marquis drinks his wine. Somewhere, so close and far away, the general is fighting a battle—he fights two: the one before him and the one he cannot see. The struggle is at a locked stalemate. Yao sees Ma Liang finally looking at the arm, and his eyes freezing to the sight. Guan Ping and Zhou Cang stare, seeming to be restrained by something, something that binds them to the background.

The time hauls itself by.

Yao cringes at the sight of the knife cutting ruined flesh, watching and hearing with sick fascination the exposed bone being scraped. Like slates being rubbed together; he cannot believe this is human bone making this gnawing sound.

He breathes, harshly. Once. Twice. Three times. On and on and on.

The fire at the semi-hearth splutters, breathing its last as it is smothered by its own ash; its heart desperately flaring to keep its life blazing. It is a losing battle.

At some point Yao sees, at the corner of his eye, several officials of his army come in. He sees what must be a mirror, for he does not miss the solemn expression of those watching the noble suffering. The arrival breaks something; a spell, an incantation; the young general and Zhou Cang take one step forward; Yao follows suit. The lull is coming to the end.

The embers collapse in on themselves.

Yao watches blankly the needle sealing the bloody work of hands, the clean white cloth from seemingly nowhere wrapping around the ruby-red arm. All the blood vanishes. Magic.

Jiang jun, the doctor says, it is complete.

Something jolts Yao, hot water to melt the seal.

Oh? says the general, looking up from his game. That was truly quick!

Quick? Yao suddenly laughs—almost, but not quite. That was an infinity of years, and the general calls it quick! The nation suddenly knows that the tempest has raged its last; it is over, gone, and the general is well again.

And then erupts with everyone else.

Everyone rushes forth, Yao among them, practically yelling: Jun hou! Marquis!—and above them all, seeping through the cracks of quiet, the young general Guan Ping crying, Fu Qin! Father!

The general smiles, the maternal moon smile for the offspring moon laugh.

Yao smiles too; it truly is well again. He is smiling, and the storm is somewhere, dissolved in a wind in the distance farther than distant.

Guan Jiang Jun, he says, and is replied to with the sun. Yunchang, he repeats, and there is another sun.

The gray hairs, so thin a veil seem to accentuate it all; this feels like a last victory, an ultimate for a warrior soon to be gone.

It is suddenly quiet. Then General Guan Yu stands, laughing, arm still bare with a hero's wound. Yao smiles more; and his half-glacier is melting again, back to a soft and beating heart. If I could die now, he thinks to himself, I will be happy. If he can be assured—of what, he does not delve into—he can die happily and proudly. Proud to know that even aging men of his land always strike back, again and again, even with every inch closer and closer to the burning grave and altar.

Then, he realizes that he is content. Another shot of history, another dissolving of the ice and black.

...

_**PT: General Guan Yu. Courtesy name Yunchang. He was a general—one of the Shu Kingdom's Five Tiger Generals—during the Three Kingdoms Period. And he was deified during the Sui Dynasty, after he was long dead and gone. Today you can see shrines to him everywhere; from grocery stores, to homes, to restaurants. That trademark beard and his red face, and the guan dao, known as Qin Long Yen Yue Dao. –Backhands Dynasty Warriors while foaming at the mouth- This scene is from the highly romanticized version of the Three Kingdoms Period by Luo Guanzhong; Guan Yu lays siege on Fancheng, where he is shot with a poisoned arrow in the right arm; refusing to retreat, and determined to keep the morale of the troops, the famous doctor Hua Tuo is brought to heal his arm. And this is what happens...but some sources say that he played what the Japanese call Shougi instead of go, or weiqi in Chinese. Amazingly he did not show any signs that the surgery pained him. Guan Yu has noticeably aged by then, and he actually died soon after this most-likely fiction scene; he and his son Guan Ping were caught by enemy forces who executed them both. This leads to a turn in the novel when everyone the readers know and love start to die; Guan Yu had already performed extraordinary deeds in the novels, and I consider this his last amazing feat in life. Zhou Cang is a fictional character, though he and Guan Ping both appear with Guan Yu all the time, really. Titles of "hou"—equivalent to the Western title of marquis—were given out to people who were of merit deserving of the honors. The above lyrics are from the beginning of the song Dui Shou, for a Taiwanese parody show of Romance of Three Kingdoms. If you want the lyrics and translation, I can send you the link. Argh, this note is so long...well, hope you enjoyed.**_


End file.
